


I'd Kill for Your Love

by Domina_Temporis



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dark Crowley (Good Omens), French Revolution, Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Protective Crowley, a bit - Freeform, look I finally didn't write fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 14:02:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21357421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Domina_Temporis/pseuds/Domina_Temporis
Summary: Crowley drops in on the French Revolution and ends up unexpectedly rescuing an angel from the Bastille. And he's decidedly unhappy about how his angel's been treated...Basically, Crowley's thought process during the French Revolution scene.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 193





	I'd Kill for Your Love

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the way Crowley's brand of evil is more like annoyances, except when someone threatens to harm Aziraphale, when he's apparently perfectly willing to commit murder. 
> 
> Title from I Was Born to Love You

As it turned out, Crowley wasn’t just “in the neighborhood” of Revolutionary France.

Though it is true that Aziraphale was lucky he was.

No, as is often the case, Crowley had received a commendation by way of a moldy parchment burning its way through his table congratulating him on starting the French Revolution. Which seems to him to be a slight exaggeration because Crowley hadn’t had anything to do with the French Revolution. He hadn’t even been to France since the Hundred Years War. England was where everything was happening now. 

The fact that Aziraphale had settled in London and taken to England better than any duck had ever taken to water had nothing to do with Crowley’s decision to live there. Officially, anyway.

Anyway, usually Crowley likes it when Hell thinks he started something he’d had nothing to do with. It lets him relax a little, since if they think he’s starting all these grand events the humans are really responsible for; they can’t be paying attention to what he’s actually doing. It really helps him ignore his job and get on with the more important business of drinking, going to the theatre and finding excuses to visit Aziraphale.

But just in case anyone below asks how the revolution is going, Crowley probably should know enough about it to convincingly fake his way through an interrogation. (Incidentally, faking his way through his infernal mission is about as much work as actually doing the job would be most of the time). English opinions of the goings-on in France seem to range from thinking the whole business is well-earned comeuppance for siding with the Americans when they had their Revolution to a definite superiority complex that when the English had decided they’d had enough of their monarchy, they’d limited themselves to beheading only the King and then got so fed up of all the hullabaloo that they turned around and invited them straight back in. 

Which is all a long-winded way of saying that if Crowley wants to know what’s going on in France, he's got to go there himself and see. When he gets to France he immediately realizes things are a lot worse than the reports they’d been getting in England. Anyone even remotely aristocratic has fled to their country estates, or outlying territories they would have been embarrassed to be seen in a decade ago, like Mauritius or Quebec. Those that are left...well, there aren’t any left. Only their heads decorating the pikes around the guillotines. Crowley grimaces. He’s always wondered why the humans need Hell when they’re so good at coming up with gruesome punishments all on their own. Everyone else that he passes looks afraid and no one seems willing to wear even the slightest bit of ruffle or lace, afraid of being taken for an aristocrat. Crowley quietly miracles his outfit into a slightly plainer look, tying his hair back in a simple ponytail. Though he can’t resist adding a couple of ringed curls to the sides. He has to have some style. People simply wouldn’t realize that it’s him. Not that he expects anyone to recognize him here. Everyone he knew is long dead or probably locked up in the Bastille for being against the Revolution.

Actually…

As Crowley passes the Bastille, intending to quickly walk by as he’s never much liked seeing the results of suffering, he catches a whiff of something that he recognizes almost immediately. A feeling, almost like an emotional scent, of goodness, kindness, trust and the barest hint of bastardy if you knew where to look.

Crowley rolls his eyes and curses under his breath. How, had Aziraphale ended up in the Bastille? He’s always tried to keep an eye, or well, a sense, out for the angel. It helps him organize the Arrangement, or sometimes just arrange for a nice night out when he got bored. Not to mention that Aziraphale has a knack for landing himself in trouble and needing a rescue every so often. Crowley knows Aziraphale does the same, remembering a couple of tight spots the angel had got him out of in turn. A couple of witch hunts come to mind, and one very long drinking session in Spain during the Inquisition, after which even Crowley couldn't see straight.

But Crowley had lightened up a little now that they’re both more or less permanently based in London and Aziraphale has been telling him for decades that he has every intention of opening a bookshop (Crowley was still not sure why, as Aziraphale had not parted with a single book he’d ever acquired in five thousand years). The as-yet-nonexistent bookshop and the amount of work it apparently takes to open one mean Crowley figured he’d have a permanent location he could count on Aziraphale being at for the time being. It would take a stronger force than Crowley to force Aziraphale out of his own personal library. He supposes he’ll have to learn to like books. 

Then again, Aziraphale could be here on a mission. It would be just like Heaven to send Aziraphale to minister to the poor souls locked up in the Bastille. God had always seemed partial to France, or at least the French had always thought so, despite all the courtly vanity and oppression of the lower classes. But Crowley doubted the angel would be allowed to interfere, however much he might have wanted to.

Anyway, Crowley isn’t so much a snake as a moth drawn to Aziraphale’s holy light, and from the moment he senses the angel nearby, he has to go find out what he’s doing. When he follows the emotional scent, it takes him to a cell in the Bastille, just in time to take in a scene that he would never have imagined in his wildest dreams. Or rather, nightmares.

The cell is, admittedly, spacious, though bare of anything resembling comforts. There’s a small stool in the center and a window high up that does little to light the room. Crowley stops time just to be safe and the big, loud Revolutionary guard who was apparently about to take Aziraphale to his execution is frozen, looking toward the guillotine through the window with an expression that is nothing short of worship. Aziraphale - because of course, it is Aziraphale - is standing by the wall, looking more annoyed by the prospect of his impending execution than anything else. Crowley’s amusement at the sight is currently at war with anger over how close it had come. They were clearly about to take Aziraphale out to the guillotine next, and who knew how long it would be before Heaven would reissue him a body and allow him to come back? 

He pretends he doesn’t feel the wave of relief that washes over Aziraphale as he realizes Crowley is there, saying his name as if Crowley is the best thing he could have asked for. As if he’s the answer to a prayer instead of the opposite of one. How many times had he imagined Aziraphale saying his name like that? Though, admittedly, in Crowley’s fantasies, they usually weren’t in a cell when he did.

There usually weren’t chains around Aziraphale’s wrists either, and anger finally wins out over amusement as the angel turns around. “Oh, good Lord,” Aziraphale says primly, as if Crowley’s the one who’s done something wrong. Which, really, he is. He’s not supposed to be rescuing angels. He’s never flouted Hell so obviously, and they could notice he’s here any second. In fact, they’re expecting him to be here since they think this is all his fault, which means they're probably watching. To distract himself, Crowley immediately asks what Aziraphale is doing locked up in the Bastille anyway. He’s supposed to be opening a bookshop.

“I got peckish,” Aziraphale says, and he has the good grace to look embarrassed about it. Or at least as if he knows he should be. 

“Peckish?” Crowley asks in disbelief, and that’s all it takes for Aziraphale to launch into an utterly unembarrassed account of how you can’t get decent crepes anywhere outside Paris. Or brioche.

Crowley's anger at finding Aziraphale locked up is already dissipating in favor of annoyance at Aziraphale for being stupid enough to land himself in prison for a few different types of bread in the first place. Not that it will last long. He never can stay annoyed at Aziraphale for long and it's already weakening into a sort of fond exasperation that is well on its way to turning into full adoration. 

Crowley has done this a few times. He knows the path his emotions regarding Aziraphale take. Though, really, no matter how good the French are at making baked goods, it’s not worth getting violently discorporated. Stupid, ridiculous angel.

Satan, Crowley adores him.

“So you just popped across the Channel, during a revolution, because you wanted something to nibble? Dressed like that?” _Bless it_, Crowley wants to sound annoyed but he can’t keep the fondness out of his tone. 

Fortunately, Aziraphale takes just enough offense not to notice. “I have standards!” he says. _I can tell_, Crowley thinks, looking Aziraphale up and down. He’s never seen a time period’s fashions suit themselves to Aziraphale more. He’s spent the last few decades thoroughly enjoying the amount of frills, lace, bows and ornaments the upper classes wear. Crowley has always favored looks with more clean lines and solid colors, though he has to admit this look more than suits Aziraphale.

Every look suits Aziraphale, he thinks in an unguarded moment before he forces his attention back to what they’re doing. Which is arguing, as is so often the case when they meet. Well, not so much arguing as discussing. Animatedly. Crowley loves arguing with Aziraphale, something he doubted anyone else would understand, but is true. It’s _fun_ to argue, especially with someone who argues back. If Crowley tried to argue philosophy or theatre or baked goods with anyone else, they’d be dreadfully boring about it, or else think they actually need to get angry. 

Not Aziraphale. He _gets_ it. The angel can banter with the best of them, when he allows himself, and he’s quick enough and clever enough that Crowley never gets bored, even when all they’re arguing about is cake. No one else can make Crowley rethink his positions like Aziraphale can, and he likes to think he’s made Aziraphale rethink a few of his own. Every argument they have ends in laughter eventually. And alcohol, of course.

Crowley does wish he could explain it to Aziraphale, because he suspects the angel would agree with him. Anyway, if they’re going to get into another philosophical discussion he’d rather do it anywhere but here. “Why didn’t you just perform another miracle and go home?” he asks. He wonders how long Aziraphale has been sitting here. In chains. Anger threatens to take over again.

“I was reprimanded last month,” Aziraphale says.”They said I’d performed too many frivolous miracles.” He looks thoroughly perturbed, not to mention a bit upset. Crowley feels an unexpected pang of sympathy. Aziraphale took Heaven's rules seriously, even if he didn't always agree with their messengers or the missions he's been sent on. “Got a strongly worded note from Gabriel,” Aziraphale continues.

Oh, _there_ it is. Crowley knows Aziraphale better than anyone else, and the nature of their association means that neither of them can ever say what they mean. He’s a master at translating what Aziraphale says into what he actually means and has been for centuries.

And he doesn’t like what he’s not hearing.

He remembers how long it took to convince Aziraphale to agree to the Arrangement. How every time they took advantage of it, they had to follow the same circuitous script of argue-deny that we’re friends-convince-sneak away. Crowley had thought Heaven was more like Hell - mostly hands-off unless something big came to their attention. They’re obviously not paying attention if they think Crowley started this whole mess with the guillotine, and the result is that as long as he’s not so obvious with his blessings, Crowley can mostly do what he likes.

But it’s been clear to him for years now that Heaven must be slightly more observant. He’s watched Aziraphale every time he threw a worried look toward the sky when Crowley said something he deemed too obvious. Now they’re keeping track of miracles? How else was a supernatural being supposed to get around on Earth? On horses? Crowley frowns. He wonders what could possibly have been in that letter that convinced Aziraphale it would be better to be violently discorporated than to get in trouble for performing a miracle.

He wants to take Aziraphale out of here and run away. Go to the Pacific, Antarctica, Alpha Centauri. Somewhere Heaven and Hell will never find them again. But that’s impossible and they both know it.

But he still can’t have Aziraphale getting discorporated. Knowing Gabriel, it would be centuries before they reissue him a body and let him come back. If they let him at all. They might send a _replacement_. Crowley grimaces. “Well, you’re lucky I was in the area.” This is the part they both know. The script they follow to make it seem as if it’s totally coincidental they should happen to both be here.

“I suppose I am,” Aziraphale says in a flat tone. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“My lot sent me a commendation for outstanding job performance,” Crowley says.

“So all this is your demonic work?” Aziraphale splutters, right on schedule. He always does a good job at acting as if he’s shocked that Crowley could be behind any of Earth’s darker moments. Perhaps at some point in their history he really believed it, but by now they both know Crowley has never, and probably could never, come up with anything like this.

“No, the humans thought it up themselves. Nothing to do with me!” Crowley says. He can never resist answering back, even though he knows that Aziraphale only accuses him of things to make it seem realistic that he’s thwarting, should anyone above be watching. He should probably thank him; if Hell is listening in, Aziraphale’s false accusations are doing a lot to convince them Crowley is really doing his job.

Crowley sometimes wonder what they’d actually talk about if they didn’t have to keep up a constant stream of false conversation to hide from their respective sides, until he remembers that it’s him and Aziraphale and he would sit in eternal silence if he had to, as long as it was next to the angel. Crowley decides he's had enough and snaps his fingers. The manacles fall off Aziraphale’s wrists and he rubs the skin where the iron had scraped it. Crowley glances forward, making sure they haven’t done any real damage.

“Well, I suppose I should say thank you, for the, uh, rescue,” Aziraphale says delicately. 

“Don’t say that!” Crowley says immediately. If anything could attract Hell’s attention, it would be an angel thanking a demon for a rescue. “If my people hear I rescued an angel, I’ll be the one in trouble. And my lot do not send rude notes.” Hell may pay less attention than Heaven. But they give fewer chances. If Crowley gets in trouble with them, he’ll be finished and they both know it.

"Well, anyway, I’m very grateful. What about if I buy you lunch?" Aziraphale asks instead and Crowley is, as usual, helpless before something Aziraphale wants. Especially because what he wants is to spend more time together and that is _always_ what Crowley wants.

“Looking like that?” Crowley asks. It would be something if they both ended up getting arrested again because Aziraphale is too attached to high-quality clothes. Aziraphale gives him an exasperated look and begrudgingly miracles his lovely, frilly outfit into the uniform of the revolution (“Barely counts as a miracle, anyway"). Of course, he can’t resist some decoration, in the form of a big frilly ribbon in the revolutionary colors. He looks so put out that Crowley almost smiles.

Except.

Well. Aziraphale had nearly been discorporated. Five thousand years and he’s never been discorporated. Crowley’s never _been_ on Earth without Aziraphale somewhere. Even if he’d been halfway across the world from where Crowley was, they could always find each other.

But they were going to execute him. Cut his head off for nothing more than being in the wrong country and wearing expensive clothes.

These _revolutionaries_ had put his angel _in chains_. 

Crowley isn't usually a murderer. But he is a demon and decides all he wants right now is to see this jailer punished.

So he intercepts Aziraphale's miracle and makes sure that the angel's frilly, aristocratic clothes end up on the jailer instead.

They watch as the guards take him away. They'll recognize him before they get to the guillotine. Probably. Crowley doesn't really care. “Dressed like that, he’s asking for trouble,” he remarks to Aziraphale, who schools his expression into looking perfectly blank. Maybe he recognizes that Crowley needs to hide his rescue from Hell with something suitably big. Maybe he’s quietly making sure the jailer will get a last minute reprieve when the executioner recognizes him. Maybe he just doesn’t want to argue. 

It’s simpler for Crowley He wants the world to know that even if he can't be with Aziraphale the way he wants, he can make sure to protect him. Nobody is going to touch Aziraphale without _consequences_. Consequences that he’d dearly love to visit on Gabriel and Michael and anyone else who’s been sending Aziraphale rude notes, but that he can only make happen right now, to the bastard who’d put his angel in a cell and put chains around his wrists. 

Crowley doesn’t think he feels too badly about this. After all, this is all supposed to be his fault, isn’t it? It’ll probably give him a wing up in Hell if he was personally responsible for one of the murders, and besides, Aziraphale is safe next to him and they’re going to go for crepes.

There isn’t all that much that matters next to that, Crowley realizes.


End file.
